Chapter One
Chalmette
Near New Orleans, Louisiana
January 8, 1815
The thick morningmist had quickly given way to daybreak, which had pushed through the fog only minutes earlier. On its heels, dark sulfuric clouds of black rose everywhere as cannon fire erupted, camouflaging the musket balls and grapeshot which were cutting down bodies everywhere Colonel Matthew Romney looked and slashing holes in the defenses. Surely, Hell had risen. The bright blue sky had lasted only moments before the fighting began.
Matthew hated mosquitos, had grown tired of this war, and would never comprehend the military’s refusal to adapt to the guerrilla warfare they faced in the American wilderness. He considered the ungodly number of fallen men, who would never see their families again. He thought of his own family and wondered how they were doing—what they were doing. His younger brother, Jason, would soon be eleven. Matthew left his family and everyone important to him over two years ago; his only connection to his world was the sparse letters he received from home.
A rider skidded to a stop in front of him. “Colonel.” He slid from his horse and saluted. “Can you point me to the general, sir? I have urgent news.”
Already?The battle was ten minutes old. “General Pakenham is in the house.” Matthew turned and pointed toward the white Villeré plantation house a hundred yards behind him, where command had set up days before.
“Thank you, sir,” the messenger replied, just before a musket ball hit him square in the head and knocked him to the ground.
Matthew’s heart lurched and for a moment, he felt lightheaded, almost weightless. He looked down and saw a scrawled note in the messenger’s hand. He retrieved it and ran to the house, weaving through bodies and praying he would not have the same fate.
Running up the steps, he pushed past the sentry at the door and into the office Pakenham occupied, handing him the note before leaning down to catch his breath.
“Thank you, Romney.” Pakenham perused the scribble, suddenly pacing. “Jesus! Where did you get this?”
“A messenger, sir. He died after asking for you. I saw the note and grabbed it. The man said it was urgent.” Romney struggled to get his heart under control as he pulled himself up to stand at attention.
“Colonel Rennie is dead, and most of his men perished trying to retreat. The messenger may have been part of his regiment. Dedicated man. The ladder unit is still behind us. I wish to heaven it had made it through,” he murmured. “We have to move toward Line Jackson and check these dirty shirts without them. Assemble our men,” he said, examining his saber and snatching his hat. “No time to lose.”
“Yes, sir.” Matthew raced to follow orders, with the general on his heels. Within what seemed like only minutes, the surrounding eight-thousand men assembled and began their march toward Line Jackson.
The American line was a canal widened into a defensive trench and strengthened by a seven-foot earthen and timber rampart. Large bales of cotton covered with mud hid and protected cannons, blending them into the embankment.
Red-clad bodies from previous assaults lay everywhere as they got closer, forcing the men to step over and around fallen comrades as they pushed through. On their way, they got word that Major General Samuel Gibbs had also been killed. Gibbs’s assault had also failed, and it had decimated his men in the torrent of battle. The surge of American fire had been like none they had ever seen before—almost surgical with precision. The plan had been to annihilate Jackson’s men in a net of crossfire, but with Rennie’s demise and their other setbacks, that strategy had failed. Ahead of them the rampart emitted what looked to be the devil’s flames moving toward them.
“Bayonets, ready,” Matthew commanded the surrounding men, pushing down the cold fissure traveling up his spine.Everything feels wrong.He felt for his saber for assurance, but its presence made little difference.
Within sight of the line, Pakenham gave the order to attack, answered immediately by cannon fire and a volley of shots that cleared almost all the men in the lines ahead. Chaos ensued as stunned men continued to push forward, only to be blown into the air, body parts flying. The potent smell of sulfur, excrement, and bile assaulted them. Men tried to retreat, cut down in red waves by grapeshot and musket balls.
The oppressive sounds of terror roared in his ears—explosions, cries, laughter, virtually every noise he could imagine overwhelmed the senses. In his peripheral vision, Matthew thought he saw Pakenham go down. Before he could check, a wave of red ignited the ridge ahead of him. A moment later, he felt a sharp pain hit his lower abdomen. Stunned, he fell from his horse. His mare screamed, struggling to detach herself from him. “Run, girl,” he whispered. He wanted to run himself, but could no longer move. His mother’s face floated in front of him.Stay strong, Son. Come home to us.He wanted to go home. It was his last thought before blackness swallowed him.
The battle sounds gradually faded into voices. The realization he had lived stirred him to consciousness. He could feel the sun warm his face but could not open his eyes. Was he blind? He willed them to open, but saw nothing. Everything hurt, especially his head and his gut. Men spoke around him. How long had he been here?
“We need to find the officers. Look for General Pakenham. He was said to have fallen near here,” a husky voice said. “I would not want to explain to Wellington that we left an officer’s body behind.”
“Over here,” a second man shouted. “I think this is ’im. They must have pulled ’im away from the middle of the battlefield. Did ye know Pakenham was Wellington’s brother-in-law?”
“I did not know, and I do not care. Hurry,” the one with the husky voice commanded. “I can feel them watching us, giving us time to gather our dead. Stack them in piles once we peel the uniforms. It’s impossible to know how long we have.”
Matthew could barely breathe. He was underneath something heavy. It smelled awful. The metallic scent of blood assaulted him.The dead had not been here long enough to rot, had they?
Am I dead?Matthew tried to move an arm. Nothing moved. Nothing worked. The men were there to retrieve the living and bury the dead. He could hear grunting and thuds, unsure either sound meant help for him. It mattered not. He could not save himself. This was surely the end. Warm tears formed and rolled from the corners of his eyes.
Matt, are you mad? They could have seen you. You take the wildest chances.Evan Clarendon’s excited voice sounded in his head.You locked the door, and they cannot get back into the residences.
He must have been dreaming or hallucinating. Evan Clarendon was across the Atlantic, not in this mosquito-ridden hellhole.
A scene from years past rose in his mind. He and his friends had spied a group of older bullies known to torment the younger boys. On this night, the older bullies were swimming in a nearby pond and had removed their clothing. His friend Evan had taken the added measure of locking the doors to the halls, so the unclothed victims would have to wake people up to be allowed back inside. It had been a perfect crime. Rather than knock, the group of naked boys tried to scale the residence halls to get into the windows and were caught. The headmaster had not been amused. The older bullies had stepped into trouble for the prank, and Matt and his friends had laughed for a week.
A lump formed in his throat.I will never see my friends or family again.“Please do not let me perish here, Lord,” he heard himself murmur.
